


A Small Adventure

by GarudaDreamsOfRain



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2020, SherlollyWeek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23063779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarudaDreamsOfRain/pseuds/GarudaDreamsOfRain
Summary: Sherlock and Molly accidentally get locked in a closet.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 14
Kudos: 60





	A Small Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> This is a chapter from a WiP that will probably never see the light of day, so I thought I’d cannibalize it for this challenge. What you need to know:
> 
> After the phone call in TFP, Molly is so confused and angry that she dumps Sherlock and starts dating Greg Lestrade, but she almost immediately starts having second thoughts. Truly in love with her, crushed and disheartened, Sherlock retreats to Holsworthy, his cousin’s estate near Dartmoor to recover and think things over. Harold, a middle-aged relative, is an OC who lives in the house and is kind of an arsehole. After a few months, Sherlock invites Molly out for a few weeks of vacation. This is her first morning, things are a little awkward between the two of them, and after breakfast Sherlock is showing her around the house where he spent a great deal of time as a boy.

Sherlock and Molly were wandering arm in arm through the long portrait gallery on the second floor, upon whose walls hung magnificent paintings of the Holstead antecedents, dressed in their sartorial splendor and looking grandly dour, when they heard someone whistling, briskly approaching them from the opposite direction. 

“Christ, it’s Harold!” Sherlock groaned, looking around for an escape route. “What a boor!” He grabbed her elbow and rushed her along the corridor, making a sharp right turn into a shadowy alcove alongside the large staircase near the end of the hallway. He pulled open a heavy oak door under the stairs, pushed her inside ahead of him, and held the door nearly closed. “There’s something about that guy,” he muttered. “Every time I see him I want to punch him in the face.”

It was dark inside and Molly couldn’t even see her hand in front of her face. “Is there a light?” she asked.

“There’s a lamp on the table, further in,” he whispered, his ear pressed against the narrow slit in the door.

She put her hands out in front of her and slowly began to shuffle forward. A few seconds later there was a loud sound of smashing pottery and the unique *poof* of a breaking light bulb, followed by a small, blue sizzle of electricity. “Shit,” she said. “I think I found the lamp. Is there another?”

“No. Never mind,” he replied. “Come back. You’ll bash your head on the stairs.” He stretched out his hand to guide her, and was puzzled when his palm was filled with something soft, warm, and round. Curious, he gave it a squeeze, trying to figure out why her shoulder was so pliable. She squeaked and he instantly withdrew his hand. “Uh, sorry,” he mumbled, grateful for the darkness which hid his burning cheeks.

“I haven’t been felt up in a closet since I was sixteen,” she giggled, moving closer to him. “He must be gone by now,” she said, finding his arm and clutching the sleeve of his shirt. “Can we go?”

“Um,” he said, hesitantly. “Molly? Promise you won’t get mad.”

“You realize that phrase never bodes well, especially coming from you,” she replied, dryly. “What is it?”

He sensed a certain tension in her tone. “When you bro— I mean, when the lamp got broken, I was a little startled and I accidentally let go of the door.”

“Yes? And?”

“It shut.”

“Yes?” Her voice was getting irritated.

“And it locked,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s locked,” he repeated.

“I heard you the first time!” she snapped.

“Then why did you ask me to repeat it?” he responded, confused.

“I meant ‘what’ in the way you do when you mean _what the actual fuck_.” Her voice was getting shrill. “Did you really just lock us in a closet?”

“Oh,” he said, nodding, “this isn’t a closet. It’s a reading nook. It’s really nice, I thought you might like it. Good place to escape to when there’s too many people.”

“I don’t care if it’s Lady Godiva’s bath! Get me out of here!”

“Usually there’s a key,” he muttered, bending over and feeling around the floor. “Damn, it must be on the other side.”

“Sherlock,” she said, taking a deep breath and trying to stay calm. “I suppose now would be a good time to tell you that I have an irrational fear of dark, enclosed spaces.” He straightened up and she found his upper arm, grabbing it with both hands.

“Okay,” he said, rattling the door handle and pushing, to no avail. He pounded on the door with the side of his fist. “Hello there!” he bellowed. “Let us out!” 

Silence. Harold had apparently wandered outside of the sound of his voice.

“Sherlock! I mean it!” she hissed. “This is freaking me out! It’s pitch black in here!”

“Calm down,” he said. “You’re all right. There’s nothing to get worked up about.”

He could hear her start to hyperventilate and her hands around his bicep tightened. “Don’t tell me to calm down when we’re locked in a fucking closet!” she shrieked. Her grip was cutting off the circulation in his arm.

“Reading nook,” he corrected. “Stand back, Molly. I’m going to force it.”

Not willing to let go of him entirely, she moved behind him, firmly clutching the back of his shirt.

Sherlock hurled himself at the door, only to smash his shoulder against the thick, unyielding oak. There was a ripping sound as his shirt tore where she was grabbing it. On the front side, two buttons, unable to withstand the pulling strain, popped off and made little plinking sounds when they hit the hardwood floor. “Ow! Shit!” he yelled. 

“Oops,” she said, letting go of him. “Did you get the door?”

“No, I didn’t get it!” he snapped, rubbing his shoulder. “I hurt myself. This door and the jamb must be two inches of solid wood. Jesus, Molly,” he muttered, feeling the damage to his shirt. There was a large hole in the back and the front was now hanging open. “Are you _trying_ to tear my clothes off?”

“No. Of course not. That was an accident,” she said in a small voice. “Sorry. Listen, why don’t I brace you and you kick it,” she suggested.

“Okay,” he agreed. She put both hands on his back and spread her feet apart, leaning forward into him.

“Go,” she said. He kicked as hard as he could once, twice, and on the third try the force of his kick made his other foot slip. He lost his balance and fell backwards, knocking her over. They both tumbled to the floor, him on top, her pinned underneath. Grunting, he floundered around like a turtle on its back, trying to get righted without squishing her whilst she pushed at him. “Get off me!” she shouted. 

“Stop shoving! You’re not helping!” he yelled. Rolling to the side, he managed to struggle to his feet. “Give me your hand,” he said, as he felt around for it and helped her up. “Got any other bright ideas?” he asked, trying unsuccessfully to suppress his laughter.

She was not amused. “Can’t you…I don’t know, pick the lock or something?”

“With what?” he retorted. “All I’ve got are the _rags_ I’m now wearing. I forgot to bring my lock-picking tools,” he added, sarcastically. “I hadn’t planned on getting shut in a closet.”

“Reading nook,” she corrected. “I know! Use a bobby pin.”

“I don’t have a bobby pin, Molly. Do you?” His voice ticked up with a sliver of hope.

“No.”

“Then it wasn’t a helpful suggestion, was it? Normally I love a locked room mystery, but it’s a bit different when you’re the one locked in,” he mused. “What to do, what to do…”

“Hinges!” she suggested. “Take the pins from the hinges!”

“They’re on the other side,” he explained, patiently. “The door opens out, remember?”

“Okay,” she said, thinking. “I’ve got it! Use the broken pottery shards from the lamp to carve a hole near the lock!”

Dead silence greeted her for a good ten seconds. “I…I don’t…I…I can’t…even believe that just came out of your mouth,” he finally managed, in disbelief. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in weeks, and I talked to Harold only this morning.”

“Oh, god,” she wailed, losing it completely. “We can’t get out! And there’s no one in this part of the house! There’s no air! We’re trapped! We’re going to die!”

He snorted. “There’s plenty of air and we’re not going to die.”

“How do you know?” she shouted. “In twenty five years someone’s going to come along and find our rotting corpses in here! I can sense my imminent demise!”

“Your demise is not imminent,” he chuckled.

“No, but yours is,” she growled, “if you don’t get me the fuck out of here! Oh, god!”

He could tell by the currents of air that she was flapping her hands in agitation. “Come here,” he said, finding her hand. “Sit down. I’ll think of something.” He sat down, his back against the wall, pulling her with him. She immediately clambered over him, settling herself between his outstretched legs. “Ow!” he grumbled. “Christ, Molly, mind where you’re putting your knee! There’s sensitive…parts right there.”

She curled in a tight ball against him, grabbing the gaping front of his shirt in her fists. “Please, Sherlock. Think of something quickly. I…can’t stand this!”

“Shut your eyes,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “It won’t seem so bad then.” He could feel her body shaking. “Try to relax now. Breathe. I’m going to tell you a story.”

“Great,” she bit out. “That’ll help.”

“It will. You’ll see,” he said, soothingly. “It’s a fairy story.” He cleared his throat. “Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. She was good and fair and perfect because all princesses in stories like these are. And everyone in the kingdom loved her because she was kind beyond measure. Although why kindness should be the only measure for regard is rather confounding. One would think that additional, positive character traits might be taken into consideration.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, stuff like baking chocolate chip cookies, heartfelt understanding, forgiveness, of course, very, very important, Molly, and the ability to get body parts from the morgue. You know, the usual things.” He noticed her shivering was becoming intermittent.

“You like chocolate chip cookies,” she said.

He chuckled. “Yes, I do. Especially your chocolate chip cookies, Molly. They’re the best.”

She preened a little. “And what was the princess’s name?”

“M…Melody. That wasn’t her real name, but they called her that because she sang when she was joyful, which was most of the time, and the entire kingdom was filled with contentment, knowing their princess was happy. Also, it appears they were idiots. I’m not sure how a bit of warbling can make an entire kingdom happy, but it seemed to work in this case.”

“What did she look like?”

“She had long blonde hair and—“

“Make it brown,” she insisted.

“Long, dark hair then, with hints of cinnamon, which fell loose down her back because she didn’t have any bobby pins. She was tiny, Molly, just like you. She had a cute little nose which turned up at the end, and big brown eyes that would spark and shoot daggers when she was angry.”

“Real daggers?” she asked, hopefully.

“No, they weren’t real,” he chuckled, “but they felt real enough to those on the receiving end, believe me. Apparently, though, Melody didn’t get angry very often because women aren’t allowed to get angry in fairy stories, or to have any kind of rational response to bothersome events. Anyway, her beloved father had died many years before, and her mother the Queen was growing old and wanted to see her only daughter married and settled before she joined him.”

“Oh,” she said, softly. She wiggled against him, getting comfortable. Her shivering had almost stopped. His voice was deep, steady, and soothing, as were his arms around her, one hand slowly rubbing her back in comforting little circles. She wound her arms around his waist and laid her cheek on the warm skin of his chest.

“One glorious day in high summer when Melody was a girl,” he continued, “she was out picking wildflowers in a meadow and she happened to run into Fool, who was also out gathering flowers.”

“Who’s Fool?” she asked.

“I’m telling you,” he responded. “Fool lived at the palace, entertaining the Queen, Melody’s mother, and all her court. He was a very smart boy, but he had wild ideas which matched his wild heart, and most of the people in the kingdom made fun of him, because they didn’t understand him. That made Fool angry and singular, and sometimes he was cruel to people when he didn’t want to be. And sometimes he made Melody so mad that she would shout at him and tell him to go away.”

“Poor Fool,” she breathed.

“Ah, most of the time he didn’t care. He tried to be happy with his smart thoughts and the good he brought the kingdom, even if the people were too stupid to appreciate him. Anyway, as soon as he saw Melody that summer day, he rushed to her side and piled all the flowers he’d collected into her arms, nearly drowning her in sweet-smelling blossoms. You see, he’d liked her for a while, but from afar, because he was too shy to tell her how he really felt, and also he thought she was too good for him, being a princess and all, when he was just a lowly fool.”

“Oh,” she said, with a sudden intake of breath.

“Every morning after that Melody found a large basket of fresh flowers on her dressing table, and of course she knew who sent them. Over the years that followed and millions of flowers later, her heart grew soft towards Fool, and one day when she was grown, she woke up and saw the flowers and realized she loved him back. This is a really boring and stupid story.”

“No, it isn’t,” she protested. “What happened next? Did she rush right out and tell him?”

His arms tightened around her. “No, she didn’t. She held her love deep in her heart, because she thought it might embarrass him, although it wouldn’t have done. Plus, they couldn’t marry anyway, because she was a princess and he was a fool. Sometimes, though, they would sneak away and have a picnic down by the river so they could be alone together. And sometimes, they got attacked by the swans who lived on the water.”

“Nice,” Molly said, approvingly.

“In the neighboring kingdom lived a tall, handsome prince, although he wasn’t nearly as handsome, tall or as smart as Fool. He was decent and personable, though, and everyone in his kingdom admired him. He’d been away for many years, fighting dragons, and had recently returned in order to find himself another wife because his first wife kept cheating on him and he’d gotten disgusted with the whole situation and thrown her away. He really was a terrible spousal risk with one failed marriage already. One should always evaluate potential mates very carefully, Molly,” he advised.

“Is this story about getting married?” she complained. “Why are fairy stories with princesses always about finding a husband?” she added, with a groan.

“Because they are,” he responded. “They’re just simple morality tales designed to reinforce gender roles and societal norms. Stop interrupting.”

“Just saying,” she muttered. “Women can be many things other than brides.”

“Yes, of course women can be anything they wish. But this was a very backward kingdom, being out in the countryside, far from town, and anything else would be too complicated. Anyway,” he continued, “when the handsome prince returned—“

“What’s his name?” she interrupted.

“His name was…Buttlefut Beauregard.” She giggled. “He couldn’t help that. It was a family name,” he explained. “And it’s not nice to laugh at the misfortunes of others, Molly. When he got back from killing dragons he immediately came to the palace to woo Melody, and he was very nice, but she didn’t love him. I can’t stress this part enough, Molly. She didn’t love him because she loved Fool.”

“Yes, I see,” she answered dryly.

“Melody’s mother and Buttlefut’s mother wanted them to get married very much, because then their kingdoms would be joined and there would be lots of grandchildren they could coo over in sentimental and nauseating ways.”

“There’s nothing wrong with babies,” she said. “They’re adorable.”

He sighed. “Only one’s own, Molly. Other people’s babies are…not so great. They’re squirmy and…damp. Like big grubs.” He shuddered.

“You really are the most bizarre man,” she said, shaking her head. “What about Rosie?”

“Exception to the rule,” he replied. “Anyway,” he continued, “Buttlefut’s mother was a witch, you see, and she was going to cast a spell on them both so they’d fall in love with each other, you know, to move things along. But Buttlefut asked her not to, because he wanted a woman who would love him for himself, as all people do. 

“One day Buttlefut brought Melody the corpse of a large, wild wolf that had been terrorizing the people and eating all the chickens, and whilst this was an impressive gift, she felt sorry for the animal and decided she didn’t want any more presents like that. She preferred flowers.”

“Yes, I can see that. Poor doggie,” she murmured.

“She told Buttlefut that she would never ever marry him, which of course angered his mother and made him unhappy. So he went away to his own kingdom to sulk for a time. And her entire kingdom sank into a funk and everyone was upset. Melody even stopped singing.”

“Oh, that’s sad,” Molly said, sliding her hand under his shirt, against his bare chest. “This story doesn’t end badly, does it? I don’t like sad endings.”

“I don’t know how it ends,” he replied, with a low chuckle.

“So what happened to Buttlefut?”

“He went off to kill some more dragons, because it’s what he did best, and away in a distant land he found a very nice princess who was more his style, and she loved him for himself. So they got married, and she didn’t cheat on him and they were happy for the rest of their days.”

“Good!” she said, with an approving nod. “And what happened to the princess and the fool?”

“Oh, well, when the witch Queen found out that Melody loved Fool and not her darling boy, she was so angry she turned them both into swans. And since they were no longer constrained by silly, stupid human rules, they flew away together.”

“Ah,” she murmured, pleased. There was a short silence. “Don’t swans…mate for life?” she asked.

“Yes, they do, Molly,” he answered, his voice low and rumbling. “So they lived happily ever after on a beautiful, wide river in the kingdom, attacking their enemies together and always emerging victorious. And they raised lots of cute little swan babies over the years and were never parted again.”

“Mmm. That’s so romantic,” she breathed, lifting her head up and beginning to move her hand further up his chest. Her other hand, wrapped around his waist, pulled at the remains of his shirt.

He could feel her warm breath ghosting along his cheek and realized he would only have to turn his head slightly to capture her sweet lips with his, to be kissing her properly at last. He desperately tried to get a hold of himself and honor what he thought were her wishes, but it was incredibly difficult with her so near, and what was she doing with her hand? His heart began to flutter. Tightening his arms around her, helplessly fighting his feelings, his bones began to melt and all he could do was surrender.

“Oh, Molly,” he whispered, lowering his head towards her, finding her lips in the dark. He kissed her, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity, loving the feel of her eager, tender body in his arms. She wound her arm around his neck, moaning softly as she pressed against him, opening her mouth, encouraging him to deepen the kiss. She tasted heavenly. 

Their tongues mingled together, one of his hands tangled in her hair, his arm slipping around her slim waist, pulling her towards him, her fervent desire matching his, their feverish kiss building. His mind turned to white heat; all he wanted was for this moment to last forever.

Suddenly she stopped, breaking away from him, pulling back, pushing at his chest with her hand. 

He felt instantly guilty. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I couldn’t help myse—“

“No, shut up!” she commanded. “Do you hear that?”

He listened. “Whistling!” he said. 

They both scrambled to their feet and Sherlock started pounding on the door and yelling for help. Molly took a deep breath and let out a piercing, high pitched scream.

“Christ, Molly!” he winced, sticking his fingers in his ears. “Stop that! He’ll think I’m…doing something to you in here.” They both fell silent for a moment, hearing the whistling growing louder, and eventually the sound of footsteps. Sherlock redoubled his efforts, shouting and pounding, and soon the lock was turning and the door opened.

“I say,” Harold commented, eyeing them both with curiosity. “Managed to get yourself shut in the closet, eh?” 

“It’s a reading nook,” they answered simultaneously, as Molly shoved Sherlock aside to dash out into the light and air of the hallway. 

She stood there, her hand on her chest, breathing deeply, trying to regain her composure. “I need a cup of tea,” she declared, turning and abruptly rushing away towards the breakfast room. 

Harold pointedly eyed Sherlock’s torn, gaping shirt. “There are other, more appropriate places for that sort of thing, you know,” he said, disapprovingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shot Harold a thin, insincere smile. “Thanks for your help, Hal,” he said, curtly, before heading off to his room. “I’ll be in the library when you’re done with your tea,” he shouted after Molly, leaping up the stairs two at a time. 

In the breakfast room, Molly noticed there was an electric silver samovar filled with hot water on the sideboard, along with a little basket of teabags. She scrounged around, looking for a mug and trying to not think about what had just happened between her and Sherlock. She made a strong cuppa, sat down and drank it whilst her thoughts returned to him. 

It seemed very clear Sherlock wasn’t in his right mind — he wasn’t acting normal. Well, his normal, which wasn’t very in the first place, she admitted. He seemed much more relaxed here in the country, which was such a stark contrast to Sherlock the detective in serious working mode. She realized she liked this version, too. Sweet, affectionate, kind, still a little irritating.

She groaned and shook her head. She’d only been here twelve hours and she’d already cheated on Greg. It was only one kiss, and perhaps there was an exception for nearly dying in a locked closet, but she still felt guilty. She ran her fingers over her lips, her mind drifting. 

Sighing, she wished Harold hadn’t shown up at that exact moment. She would have gladly braved more time in the dark with Sherlock if they could have continued. Jesus, that man could kiss! She’d felt it all the way down to her toes. Where had he learned to kiss like that? That was not at all what she’d expected, and her thoughts wandered to a forbidden place, wondering how advanced his skills were in related areas.

No, she told herself, firmly. Stop thinking about this. She’d made her choice and she wouldn’t keep cheating on Greg, even if another opportunity presented itself. It wasn’t right. Sherlock and she would stay friends, nothing more. Grabbing a paper napkin, she found a pen in the sideboard and scrawled a note on it, folded it up in her hand, and set off in search of the library.

Once in his bedroom, Sherlock shut the door, leaned against it, and took a deep, uneven breath, trying to imprint the memory of that scorching kiss onto his brain for all time. She’d felt perfect in his arms. He was sorry their rescue had come at such a precious, fragile moment.

But it was a good thing, he realized. She had seemed amenable and hadn’t slapped him, which meant she’d at least partly forgiven him. So it was a beginning, he thought, and he had two glorious weeks ahead to make her forgive him completely.

He dug through the wardrobe, located a clean cashmere jumper — sea blue to match his eyes — removed his torn shirt and pulled the jumper over his head. Moving over to the mirror and humming to himself, he fluffed his hair back to the perfect degree of tousled disarray.

Grinning, he headed downstairs toward the library, but decided to make a detour to the garden to pick an armful of flowers for her. He knew precisely which ones Melody would prefer.


End file.
